Spent yesterday afternoon and evening very pleasurably in London, meeting up with old friends, all of whom are getting on with their lives rather than studying forever. Ah well. So it goes.
We made what might be regarded as a tactical error by eating in a Chinese buffet in Chinatown, next to the Kowloon place that sells great pork buns (I've only ever had one, and that was about eight years ago, but it made an impression). Most of the food was okay, but the duck was frighteningly greasy, and contributed to problems late on...
(Don't worry, I'll explain.)
I have no idea what pub we went to off Covent Garden, but it was a good spot, selling decent beers - a priority where Paul's involved. Kind of quiet too - so much so that Helen's mate Hannah was asked to keep it down when she was just talking. At some point we Helen, Hannah, and I were talking about a friend of ours and someone she'd gone out with. Who, apparently, had had his knob pierced. As the girls discussed the mechanics of this all colour drained from my face - an achievement, since I normally flush whenever I drink - and my stomach began to churn, well-lubricated by duck grease. I honestly thought I was going to be ill. I found it rather weird, to be honest. Body piercing has always been something of a mystery to me, but while I can comprehend ears, noses, eyebrows, navels, even lips and nipples all being pierced, there really is a limit. I've read my Desmond Morris, and heard radio interviews where this has been discussed, but somehow I wasn't equipped to deal with the prospect of somebody who I have met having ...urg.
Sorry. Squeamish of me, I know. And thought it was only the prospect of having your eyes touched that freaked me out.
Anyway, I didn't puke. Eventually I made it back to that happening place called Slough, from where I headed back into London this morning, and then back to Manchester courtesy of Mr Branson , whose train was less than half an hour late. I think he deserves a round of applause.
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